My husband Reggie was a pretty good bloke to me while I was on maternity leave. During the 12 months of being a stay-at-home mum trying to work out what the eff I was doing on a daily basis, he would come home from work as a chef, cook tea, bathe the babe and make me a cuppa. What a sweetheart.
There was one huge problem, though. I hated him. I loved him so much that I hated him. I’m not sure why I hated him and his face so much. Once I told him that I wanted to smash his face in. Then I cried, and then I said sorry. Then he gave me a biscuit and I ate it in my leggings and moved on.
Another time, he came home from work, did the dishes, made a cake and asked me how my day was. I had a tantrum. I stormed out of the house and ran down the street like a child. I turned the corner and had a massive stack, tearing the knee in my favourite tracksuit pants and skinning my leg. I went to the park and cried. Then I came home and Reggie put a bandaid on my knee, gave me a biscuit and I ate it in my leggings and moved on.
I remember very clearly being at home, my son Alfie was crying and I had no idea what to do. I dropped a biscuit (I ate like a stoner when I was breastfeeding) and reached down to pick it up. When I stood up, I bumped my head on the counter so hard that I got an egg. The first thing I did was pick up the phone and call Reggie at his café during lunch service to tell him how much I hated him. He told me where the biscuits were hidden, I ate one in my leggings and moved on.
What a bitch.
By about month six of maternity leave, I was slowly starting to get my mothering shit together. However, I noticed that Reggie had started tip-toeing around me. I also noticed that I was wearing a lot of jersey and had stopped wearing the statement red lipstick of pre-motherhood.
It was during a trip to Coles wearing my favourite tracksuit pants that I had actually cut into shorts following the stack incident that it dawned on me. A lady tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to my behind. I turned around and there was a full Cruskit stuck to my arse. I flicked it off and kept shopping. I didn’t even care.
Recently, Reggie mentioned to me in an oh-so-gentle-so-as-not-to-upset-the-angry-bitch way that perhaps now I was back at work I should perhaps stop wearing leggings as pants so much. That, while we were on the subject, I should maybe venture away from jersey in its entirety.
I didn’t crack it. This was a big moment for me. I always bagged out people who wore leggings as pants until a baby came out of my vagina. But it was time.
A package recently arrived in the post from ASOS. Reggie was home and signed it off and opened it (don’t you hate that). When I came home from work WEARING A DRESS, LIPSTICK AND HEELS he asked me: ‘What is a jegging?’
Jeggings. What a bloody brilliant invention. Leggings made from stretch denim with pockets. And they’re pull on, like nappy pants.
It’s a big step for me in my world of pants. Needless to say, I’m thrilled with the results. Reggie, on the other hand, is probably warming up to having a pant intervention with me sooner or later.